


As Good As A Rest

by FunkyinFishnet



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Character Study, Episode Related, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Loss, Male-Female Friendship, Moving On, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-15
Updated: 2014-04-15
Packaged: 2018-01-19 11:56:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1468639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FunkyinFishnet/pseuds/FunkyinFishnet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alice Clerbeaux thinks fondly of the life she had with her husband, and of the time she spent with Porthos. She gains another understanding of the latter from Aramis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As Good As A Rest

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after episode 1x08 'The Challenge'. The fic's title comes from the saying "a change is as good as a rest."

Alice Clerbeaux’s husband had been a good man who had treated her well. It had not been a love match of course, but it had been pleasant enough, enjoyable even. He had appreciated her and she had found his company congenial. She would miss his stories of customers he had encountered that day, his occasionally terrible taste in furnishings, and the way he had sometimes touched her hand.

 

She would miss him, but he would not have wanted her to remain swathed in black crepe forever. He had always liked her in light colours and had liked it best when she wore costly evidence of his good fortune. She had been happy to do so then and she was glad to continue to now. It made her smile to wear what had often made him smile too.

 

That, as well as Porthos, gave her the courage to leave her mourning clothes behind and choose blues and purples instead. A treat indeed for herself after so long stuck indoors with only the servants for company. She saw how people looked at her, disapproving of how she smiled and dressed, no doubt muttering that her husband was dead, but you wouldn't know it, would you?

 

She wore the jewellery and clothing his trade had afforded her, she lived in the house they had both loved, surrounded by memories that she could not complain about. When she suffered judgement and rumour, that was what she held close to her heart.

 

She had his business to think of too of course, a business that he had been proud of, a business that she was determined would continue to be successful in his name. There were favourable apprentices that Alice had ensured stayed on and a man that her husband had thought very highly of, a man that she had recently put in charge of the day-to-day running of things. She had asked to be kept abreast of the business weekly, a request which Monsieur Cavey had not bristled at, at least not openly in her presence. A good sign indeed.

 

When she wasn't seeing to the running of her household, receiving visitors now that her mourning period was over, or focusing on her late husband's business, Alice found herself thinking of Porthos. She did not regret her decision and she had meant what she had said – she could not be a soldier's wife. The casual violence of that day had shocked her, as had Porthos' ease with the brawl that he had stepped into in defence of his Captain and friends. That was admirable, but it was still too much for Alice.

 

The time they had spent together had been brief but Alice found herself thinking of it quite often. Porthos had entered her life exactly when she had needed someone to help lift the restlessness and fog caused by her grief. She had not just been grieving the loss of her husband, but the loss of a way of life also. There were so many expectations placed on widows, what they should and shouldn’t do. Alice had found it suffocating and had longed to be free of both the crepe and the walls of her beautiful home. The fact that she had walked to church the day that she'd met Porthos had been her first overt reaction against such stifling, unable to bear the thought of another cosseted carriage journey, her propriety finally broken through sheer frustration.

 

Porthos had understood in an instant. He had shown admiration of her attitude, not scandalised reproach, and had offered to walk her home. He had commended her for choosing her own path.

 

_The done thing just means following someone else's ideas._

 

How very right he had been. He had kissed her when she hadn't had enough courage to initiate the contact herself, compelled by how handsome he had looked, how understanding he had been, how clearly his desire had shown on his face. She knew why Musketeers and other such young men haunted churches and engaged widows in conversation, and she was not offended by such attention. Porthos had likely lied to her, but the desire in his expression and the conversations they'd had had been true and honest. And what she had gained from their brief time together had been worth far more than the gold she had given him.

 

His touch had been firm but gentle, his hands scarred but skilful. She had melted beneath his attentions and had hotly crested pleasure in a way previously unknown to her. It had been a release in more ways than one. He had seen her unclothed with her hair loose and had remarked on her beauty with nothing but truth in his eyes.

 

She had told him that another life was possible and it had felt so in that moment, lying in his arms, bathed in pleasure. But she had not seen him fight then, she had not seen him beside his friends, friends that he had told her about, friends that he had clearly loved. And Alice had realised, connecting such stories with what she saw during the King's challenge that it was not just a soldier's life that Porthos could not leave behind, it was also the men that he served with.

 

Would they have met if he weren't a Musketeer? Alice could tell from his accent that he was not a man who had been brought up amongst moneyed refinement. He hadn't spoken of his childhood but Alice had formed her own silent ideas. He had said that becoming a Musketeer was the best thing that had ever happened to him. He must have worked very hard for it, to prove himself worthy of the fleur-de-lis, to stand alongside the kind of fine young men who grew up in houses like Alice's and dreamed of such work.

 

He had said that meeting Alice had meant even more than achieving his Musketeer rank. The more she thought on that, the more touched she was. It was a thought to treasure up in her heart. She was glad that she had affected him at least as much as he had affected her. It seemed they had sent powerful ripples through each other's lives.

 

She had not seen Porthos since parting from him after the King had commissioned a Musketeer, one of Porthos' friends. Alice was unable to think of the young man, d'Artagnan, without thinking of how viciously he had fought, how satisfied he had looked after stabbing his much larger opponent, how Porthos had congratulated him. She found that she missed Porthos, his conversation and his touch. She and her husband had not been overly familiar, she had done her duty as a wife and had not been blessed with children, but he had not been the sort of man to regularly kiss his wife good morning. Porthos had overflowed with touch once that barrier had broken between them. To taste such a way of life and then return to a quiet sterility was difficult and painful.

 

Alice wondered if it was possible for herself and Porthos to simply be friends, to enjoy each other's company without such touches. Surely they would both be thinking of close moments they had shared before even if they sat far apart, and surely it would be cruel to him, to them both, to respectably meet when they knew that a future together was not possible. Perhaps one day, perhaps if Porthos found himself unable to soldier anymore. It was a slim foolish hope and to be something of a consolation was not what Alice desired. She did not have to marry for stability or respectability now, she could choose for her own reasons.

 

It would be some time perhaps before she found herself as taken with someone as she had been with Porthos.

 

She was turning such thoughts over in her mind still when walking home from a visit to her favourite seamstress. The woman could have come to Alice's house, but Alice wanted the sun on her face and the taste of cool air. So she walked, quiet and content, winding through her thoughts, still lingering on Porthos, until a young man suddenly barrelled into her, almost knocking her to the ground.

 

There was a shout and the man attempted to scramble away but then there was a blur of dark leather and a familiar-looking Musketeer pounced on the man.

 

“Apologise to the lady, likely she'll be the last fair face you'll see for some time.”

 

The man looked mutinous but muttered an apology which Alice accepted with a nod, still feeling a little shaken from the shock of the occurrence. The Musketeer plucked a purse from the young man's belt and pushed him towards one of his fellows, who had appeared on horseback and who now set to binding the young man's hands and wrists.

 

“He didn't harm you, my lady? Or steal anything? I’m afraid he’s a thief of both the royal and the poor.”

 

Alice turned back to the Musketeer beside her and realised suddenly why she had recognised him – it was Porthos' friend, the one who had attended church with him and had fought beside him that day. Porthos had spoken about him in some detail, describing his exploits with amusement and affection. Upon later reflection, it had gladdened her that Porthos had friends who gave him such joy amongst the violence and blood that he had to face so often. The Musketeer – Aramis, that was his name - seemed to recognise her too and quickly removed his hat to bow beautifully.

 

“Madame Clerbeaux, you are well?”

 

“I am, thank you, Aramis. Porthos spoke of you often.”

 

Aramis looked surprised that she knew his name, and then wryly delighted. “I'm sure most of it was almost true. May I accompany you home, or to wherever it is you're heading?”

 

He spoke with polite yet genuine regard, as though he would do such a thing for any woman walking alone. Porthos had described Aramis as 'a lover of women’, a term he had not seemed to mean as a negative mark upon his friend’s character. She could well believe it. What a scandal she would cause, seen with two different Musketeers in such a short space of time.

 

She said this in an undertone to Aramis, concluding “I shall acquire quite a reputation.”

 

Aramis recognised her mirth and smiled equally. “Ah a speciality of mine, madame. But I'm not afraid of a little scandal, if you're not.”

 

She was not. Alice found him to be a charming companion who actually listened to what she said and made her laugh. She enjoyed his company and could quite understand why the women who passed him on the street looked at him in such a way. Perhaps they had enjoyed his company before or perhaps they simply saw a handsome man worth considering. Alice could imagine him conversing with Porthos, their contrasts working nicely side by side. It was a picture that made her happy and perhaps a little wistful too.

 

Aramis might have seen her expression because he dipped his head closer when he spoke next. “I should thank you, madame. Porthos was in a very agreeable mood after making your acquaintance, you clearly have a gift for soothing savage beasts.”

 

Alice feigned shock at such a pronouncement, but heard clearly the affection in Aramis' tone. “A savage Musketeer? I am quite sure the King has never commissioned such a man.”

 

But then she thought of the blood spilt before the King that day, how unaffected he had been by the violent spectacle, how unnerved she had been by both that and by the sudden thought that Porthos must face such things regularly, the chance of injury or death always so very close to him. She had been sure then that she could not live with the ever-present spectre of loss, not so soon after her husband’s departure. She was still sure of that now.

 

Her smile faltered, Aramis saw that too. Before he could say something comforting or conciliatory or anything that would cause the ache in her to grow, Alice's smile firmed and she spoke instead.

 

“It was a dream, monsieur. A wonderful dream, but a dream none the less.”

 

There was a moment of silence between them before Aramis ventured to speak.

 

“Every soldier needs a dream, madame. Something gentle to hold to when there's more blood and pain than sense surrounding them.”

 

He sounded so serious, his hand absently touched the cross that hung from his neck, and Alice wondered what he had experienced to cause the expression he was now wearing. They remained silent as they walked the rest of the way to her house, both lost in thought. When they reached the front door, Alice turned to him.

 

“I can provide refreshment if you have the time and inclination, monsieur.”

 

Aramis' smile was warm, but his eyes were still haunted. Alice wondered whose company he would seek to banish such ghosts. She wondered who Porthos went to in such moments.

 

“You are kind, madame, but sadly duty awaits me.”

 

He gave a short bow and was turning to go when Alice impulsively stopped him with a touch of her hand. Then just as impulsively, she reached up and unclasped one of her teardrop pearl earrings. She had worn the same pair during her first meal with Porthos.

 

She pressed the single earring to Aramis' palm, her face suddenly beseeching. “For his pain and the blood, with my regards.”

 

Wordlessly, Aramis stared at her, something achingly complicated in his expression. Then he tucked the pearl away beneath his doublet. He paused a moment before taking his first step away from her.

 

“Thank you, madame, for giving him a dream.”

 

He doffed his hat and Alice watched as he swiftly walked away, a man who gained attention and yet wore it so lightly. As she stepped into her house, she unclasped her now-lone teardrop pearl earring. She would keep it safe in her jewellery casket, she would look at it and smile, she would touch it and offer up prayers in Porthos' name. She hoped that Porthos would smile at the memories the earring conjured up. Perhaps she was being foolish again; perhaps she too wanted to cling to pleasant dreams.

 

She didn't know what the future held for her – another husband perhaps, the continuation of a successful business, men seeking her money, a great deal of propriety that she might increasingly ignore. She didn't know what the future held for Porthos either; there would most likely be more blood, more risk, more loss. Her fingers tightened briefly, the earring digging into her flesh. No matter what, she was glad that they both still had something gentle and fine to hold onto. Sometimes, it was all they had.

 

- _the end_


End file.
